Wherein I Awake: or Slow and Steady Wins the Race

I have to be reminded, sometimes, of why I love the city. 

Luckily, there are always clues.

Like Willie, who lives next door, who mows my lawn along with his.  Like Cheryl walking from her home to mine carrying a cake she’d made, smilingly telling me that she “needed to get rid of it”.  Like sitting on the back deck and looking at the moon over the wires that run along the poles in the alley, listening to the sounds of the upstairs’ renter putting his dishes away, one clattering, truck stop plate at a time.

Out front, the leaves on the trees in the park across the street slide softly from dark green to last-gasp yellow. 

The Farmers Almanac calls for more snow than usual. 

And I am not prepared.

Where did it go?  Has there been enough summer?  The State of Minnesota – liberal bastion! – had promised me a blue-skied, fluffy-cloud season of picnics and boat `rides.  You saw the commercials!  You heard the talk!

I should have RSVPed.  I should have made plans.

But here it comes, whether you’re for or against.  Here comes Fall, where we take stock of where we’ve been and make plans to do better for the next season.

And here comes the next season. 

I should RSVP.